Gabriel’s already grim mood took a turn for the worse. “Not at the door,” he said before stalking into the gaslit dining room. There, he poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bottle on the mahogany sideboard and downed it in one swallow. If there was one thing he couldn’t tolerate, it was being met at the door with bad news. And by the looks on their faces, Gabriel was in for a parcel of it.

Setting down his empty glass, he rested his hands on the sideboard, head bent.

He counted himself a skillful businessman when it came to running the betting shop and dealing with the fraught politics of the Rookery. The complicated mechanisms of government involved in improving a London neighborhood, however, were another beast entirely.

Ensconced with Haverford and several other gentlemen in a smoke-filled room at their club, Gabriel had listened as the men talked about forming a committee, in consult with Lord Compton, to write an impartial report on conditions in St. Giles. Haverford had also suggested that Compton might pen a newspaper article in support of reform to be published in the Times. There had been other proposals, too—nearly half a dozen altogether—but however well-thought-out and well-intentioned, they all bore two things in common. Each required Compton’s unequivocal support, and each required time—an abundance of it.

Gabriel had no desire for the former. As for the latter…

The Rookery was running out of time. Which meant Gabriel was, too. He had no patience for lengthy studies, detailed reports, or pious editorials. The people of St. Giles needed change now, not in some unreliable, indefinite future. Without it, the already dwindling slum wouldn’t survive another year.

He poured himself another glass of whiskey. Kilby, Ollie, and Walsh waited in the dining room doorway. Kilby was unshakable as ever, his posture unbending, and his lined face a study in butler-like reserve. His stillness cast an unflattering light on Ollie’s and Walsh’s restlessness. The two shifted from foot to foot with nervous apprehension, the soles of their shoes squeaking in protest.

“Walsh,” Gabriel said, taking a drink. “Speak to me.”

Bill Walsh stepped forward. He held his cloth cap in his meaty hands. What remained of his hair was ruthlessly slicked down with a heavy application of bear grease pomade. “I found someone, Mr. Royce. An old woman what knew Grace.”

“Did you,” Gabriel said in a flat monotone. “And yet…” He cast a dispassionate glance around the dining room. “I see no old woman here. Do you, Kilby?”

“No, sir,” the butler replied.

Gabriel took another drink. “I distinctly recall telling you that if you found someone you were to bring them to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Walsh said.

“Yes, sir,” Gabriel murmured. “Yet, here we are.”